


My Brother, My Son, My Friend, My Kinsman

by AmethystTribble



Series: Everlasting Song [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Feanor is finally 'Sir Appearing in this Fic'!, I'll update tags as I go along, If you haven't read Everlasting Song this will make no sense, but feel free to try
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-08-14 04:58:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16486346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystTribble/pseuds/AmethystTribble
Summary: Small vignettes and snapshots told from the perspectives of those native people of Westeros and Essos that center around their brethren from the House of Feanor.Four:When they arrived on Stepstones to combat Maelys the Monstrous, he was Prince Duncan's son. When they left, he was someone else.Five:Once, Feanor was a nuisance to Tywin because he dogged at Aerys's heels while they were trying to play. Now, it was because Tywin knew Feanor would have been the better king.Six:Daenerys only knows her family through stories.





	1. Rhaella: Feanor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks, as always, to my unbelievably amazing beta she_who_recs, who always has patience for my miscellaneous projects.

The creak was quiet and the little voice soft, but Rhaella woke easily. She’d been sleeping lightly for weeks.

The baby, in his crib across from her bed, was one reason for her light dozing, but mostly Summerhall had just made her wary. Every night, she triple-checked to make sure her reading candles were doused, and she’d forgone a bed warmer. Even the torches in the hall were extinguished. Some nights still, she woke suddenly expecting to be choking on smoke, only to find nothing, not even Rhaegar crying. 

Her babe was silently asleep now, and the small cry of, “Rhaella?” had come from the door to her chambers. She sat up, already knowing who it was. And yet, though she anticipated it, Rhaella couldn’t quell her shock at seeing young Feanor peeking through her doorway. In the dark— for he didn’t dare carry a light either— he stood stooped and shaking and small. While not an especially tall youth, Feanor had at least always been strong and straight. Despite the derison many sent his way, he always held himself with pride, and never let anyone see how their words made him want to cry. He had had to learn that because of Aerys. 

Now, his eyes were bloodshot and his entire face was swollen. Rhaella couldn’t tell yet, but she’d imagine his voice was strained from all the yelling. The stray moonlight making its way through the curtains illuminated the lingering tears highlighting his cheeks, and she mused that this whole thing was very unfair. 

Always unfair to the two of them, Targaryen black sheep. 

Rhaella held out her hand to her younger cousin.

Feanor did not dash across the room the way Rhaella would have. Instead he carefully closed the door behind him and walked slowly to her bedside. As Feanor gently pulled himself onto her bed and into her sheets, she wondered if her own son would be so odd and reserved, or more like a real child. But then again, Rhaella had seen Feanor with his mother, and the princess was no replacement for Jenny. She didn’t want her oldest friend to seek comfort with her like that, even if Rhaella was a mother now and people said she should do those things for Feanor.

Perhaps, like her, Feanor just wasn’t a child anymore. 

He kept his distance from her, curling up into a small ball and hiding his face from her. Rhaella chose to reach out slowly, and just barely touch his clenched fist. Feanor started shaking.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispered, and his voice was as cracked as she’d guessed. Rhaella grabbed his hand more firmly, squeezing as hard as she could. He’d about near crushed her fingers not four weeks ago. Aerys hadn’t come to Rhaegar’s birth, but Feanor did, and he had held her hand the entire time. She could give him comfort tonight in return for that, even if she wanted to cry like a baby herself. 

Grandfather, Uncle Duncan, Lady Jenny, they were all dead. So was Rhaella’s mother.

But somehow, Shaera’s death hit differently. She should weep more for her mother and less for the aunt she hardly knew, but she just couldn’t. She simply wasn’t shattered over losing her mother like poor, hysterical Feanor. Rhaella hadn’t loved Shaera the same way for a very long time, not like a daughter should her mother. Not since Mother didn’t defend her from Father, didn’t keep her from marrying Aerys. Not since she got her moonblood and Mother joyfully informed their family over breakfast so that Aerys could lay with her again and again until there was the child that Father wanted them to have so badly. Not since Mother went to Summerhall and got herself killed while Rhaella gave birth with only twelve-year-old Feanor for company. Rhaella hated her mother, because she no longer had one. But she hadn’t had a mother for a very long time, not since Shaera had said, “You’re a woman now.” The only new development was that Mother was dead.

“I don't want to go!” Feanor cried again, louder this time, and Rhaella realized he’d wanted an answer. She whispered, “I know, I know,” over and over again, the same way she did when Rhaegar wailed, even though she didn’t know what the baby cried for. She could understand Feanor, though, because she didn’t want to ride to Summerhall either. Rhaella couldn’t imagine having to stare at those ruins, those halls she played in, the bodies that in her mind’s eye weren’t cleared away.

If there were any bodies.

“I know it’s scary, but it won’t be as bad as you think.” Feanor just cried harder, sobs now loudly wracking his chest and harsh hiccups escaping from his mouth. He tried to bury his face in her sheets and just succeeded in smearing mucus. Rhaella swallowed the desire to cry, and gripped both her hands over his smaller, callused one. Poor, clever Feanor; he wouldn’t believe her platitudes. Rhaella wasn’t an adult; she didn’t know what to say or how to fix anything. Feanor smelled her fear like it was a weakness, and it only justified his theatrics.

She wasn’t even sure why he came to her. Surely he knew how useless she was?

Rhaella buried her face in his unfortunate black hair that Aerys always teased him for, and tried to ignore how tight her throat was. “We’re going to get to… to the stormlands, and you’ll see. Father will manage everything and we just have to show up. Everything’s cleared away-” A wet sound came from her throat, and Rhaella knew if she kept speaking she would cry. Her words weren’t even helping Feanor, whose cries just grew louder, but Rhaella was growing slightly hysterical now. She imagined herself standing in all black, carrying her sweet silver babe above a smoking ruin. Screams echoed in the distance and lightning flashed and suddenly there were Others crawling from the soot. “–all we have to do is say goodbye! Arrive, make an appearance, and leave! And we might find your mother’s friend–”

That was not a comforting thought. The Child… that awful woman with the red eyes did this to Rhaella. She got in Father and Grandfather’s ears! They said that creature walked away from the tragedy, so she must know what happened at Summerhall. _She_ did this to their family.

Feanor seemed to agree, because when he replied his words were basically screams. 

“She doomed us! She saw it and she did nothing, and, and, and! Not even for Mother!” He devolved into more wails, and they were wracking, pointless, and wet. There was no anger in Feanor it seemed; only sorrow. He kept screaming and crying and kicking the way he had for weeks, gone nigh mad in his grief. Feanor was so beside himself, Father even wanted to send him away. Rhaella knew Feanor wasn’t broken, though, because if he was, then so was she. She curled her arms around her smaller cousin in response to his anguish. Then she began to cry in earnest.

Neither of them heard Rhaegar’s weeping join their own.

What Rhaella did notice though, some time later, was when Rhaegar stopped crying. 

She still held Feanor in her grasp, and the top of his head was soaked with her tears. His face was hidden in her breast, and his hands gripped the back of her nightgown so tightly she wondered if it would rip. She couldn't say if he had simply exhausted himself, but Feanor now wept quietly, and his shaking was less severe. Perhaps, Rhaella wondered, her own wailing and sobbing might have calmed to raging storm of his soul somewhat. He always made a fuss of things, as if screaming loud enough would make his assertions true. The only thing that would then quiet his thundercloud was when another person agreed with him. Feanor might have come to her tonight just wanting to know that someone else grieved and feared. 

Which explained why Feanor— her playmate, her friend, her confidant who stood by her while Summerhall burned and Rhaegar came into the world— was here. Nothing could explain why Aerys stood across her room rocking Rhaegar.

They met eyes over little Feanor’s quivering form, and Rhaella’s gaze dared him to say anything. Aerys, for once, kept his mouth shut. Instead, he merely walked closer, Rhaegar still cradled in his arms, and Rhaella noticed how sunken in his eyes were. Perhaps Aerys, confident and unflappable Aerys, didn’t want to go the grave of Summerhall either. 

He stared at her for a while, before finally raising an eyebrow as if asking permission to speak. “What are you doing here?” Rhaella whispered instead, causing Feanor to jump and look over his shoulder. Feanor’s face fell in dismay, in a way he was usually able to hide when confronted with Aerys. He was probably just too tired to put up a front. 

Feanor began to squirm and hiccup, likely ready to make his exit before he could be forcibly removed. After the baby was born and Aerys decided to make an appearance, Feanor was banished from her chambers. Rhaella had been so weak and frightened she’d cried for him. But she didn't get to see him for three days. This time— her faculties less frayed— Rhaella tightened her grip on Feanor and levelled a fierce look at Aerys.

Aerys just rolled his eyes at them. With more gentleness than she thought him capable of, Aerys settled the sleepily-blinking Rhaegar between Rhaella and Feanor. “I wake from my peaceful slumber,” he said, straightening and walking around the bed and telling more lies, “to the wails of my child and my wife. I honestly thought there was some ruffian in here. Turns out it was just a little dragonfly.” Feanor sniffed indignantly, but he didn’t even sit up. Normally he was ready to strike Aerys or at least yell at him or run to Grandfather. But Grandfather was dead, and so were Duncan and Jenny, and Rhaella was the only one left who preferred Feanor to Aerys. So she didn’t question her cousin when Feanor just placed an arm over tiny Rhaegar and snuffled deeper in her pillows, resolutely ignoring Aerys. He was too tired, too alone.

“Of course,” came Aerys’ voice at her back, and Rhaella jumped. She hadn’t noticed him settling into her bed. “I couldn’t just let my son cry all night, especially since his mother was being so negligent.”

“Sod off,” Rhaella whined, and it was more like the kind of thing she would have said to him when Aerys was her brother and not her husband. He put his arms around her waist, but she didn’t push Aerys away. His face was too close to her neck, his grip just a little too tight for this to just be about her. “So now I have to stay to make sure everything is well here. There’s still a few more hours till dawn. Try not to be so loud.”

Feanor made another small noise. It wasn’t angry or anguished or indignant. It just was; a small exhalation, like silent smoke curling up from an extinguished fire. Rhaella tightened her grip as he spoke.

“I can’t do this without Father and Mother.”

The tears pricked her eyes again. _Mother..._

Rhaella entwined her legs with Aerys and tried focus on Rhaegar’s little face. She had to be strong. He thought she was an adult. He thought she knew what she was doing. Rhaegar couldn’t do this without his mother. Nor— she realized as she watched Aerys reached his hand across their babe to grasp Feanor’s wrist— without his father.

Aerys squeezed hard— probably more than he should have with boy three years his junior— but Feanor looked at Aerys, which is more than he had done for her all night. 

Aerys’s words, practically growled, puffed hotly against her neck. 

“Well, you’re going to have to try. The dragon’s got three heads, Feanor, so you have to be there until Rhaegar’s older.”

Feanor just shook his head, flexing his wrist until Aerys let go. But his actions seemed more out of denial than rejection, and Rhaella couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing herself. She glanced back at Aerys, but he’d closed his eyes. _So scared_ , she thought.

_An orphan._

_A mother._

_A future king._

Father was sick. There were only five members of their house left, and one was a babe. Rhaella closed her eyes, and Summerhall wasn’t quite so scary anymore. Even piles of bodies couldn’t be as bad as coming back to this empty keep. The horror already gone couldn’t compare to the futures she could imagine.

Sleep took her faster than expected. All she had to do was breathe quietly for a moment, close her eyes, and let her family warm her as a substitute for the fires she wouldn’t light. This wasn’t a solution. It wasn’t even contentment. But it was warmer than lying alone, and at least if King’s Landing went up in flames they’d all burn together. That was comfort enough for now, at least for her.

Rhaella fell into the land of dreams listening to a sound she wasn’t quite sure was real. It was Feanor whispering, and his repeating words sounded like a lullaby. Or perhaps a prayer.

“Fire and blood, fire and blood. Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords. Dread nor danger, not doom itself… shall defend… from fire and blood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a weak spot for vulnerable and smol!Feanor. Speaking of small, Rhaella was literal child when Rhaegar was born and her whole life was a tragedy. The same kinda applies to Aerys, and I do feel bad for young him . It doesn't sound like he had anymore choice in the marriage than Rhaella.
> 
> Anyway, yay side project! This will update sporadically, if at all, and probably only when I'm inspired (I kinda wrote this on accident). That being said, I've already started one for Mira Forrester about Celegorm, soooo... The thing is though, I can think of a few asoiaf povs to play with, but I want to hear your suggestions! If you have one you'd like me to do, comment it or message me on tumblr @ amethysttribble! I might be inspired.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and please leave a comment or a kudos if you liked it!


	2. Rhaegar: Feanor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar's uncle burns. And like a moth, he can't help but want to get closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is un-beta'd because I really wanted to give y'all something! Sorry if it's rough. And short.

His uncle’s forge was an almost sacred place, far more so than any Sept in Rhaegar’s eyes. And how could he not think so? The Sept of Baelor was large and empty. Though people lived and worshipped and piddled around there everyday, the same could be said for a brothel. Just with different idols. The Sept was a building with stone walls and glass windows and candles just like every other building Rhaegar had ever been in. Feanor’s refuge was different. 

It breathed. 

Stone walls and glass windows and candles, yes, but those walls pulsed! The jagged scars in the flagstone demanded attention, the discolored cornerstone told a story, and Rhaegar could feel what they had seen. The windows reflected light as if they weren’t clear, bouncing colors off the gemstones and illuminating invisible little treasures that were dust mites anywhere else. And the candles. The flickered green, then blue, then red, and orange and purple and white. They seemed to never stop burning, even though wax caked the floor. 

Perhaps it was romanticization on his part. Rhaegar was old enough to admit that. The allure of Feanor’s forge was likely inspired, first and foremost, by Father’s ban on Rhaegar entering or going anywhere near it. And that was a very important and enticing fact to remember, especially as it applied to boy of not quite fourteen years. The allure of that ban was tantalizing, the desire to sneak in and come back out with just the sort of injury Father feared was almost disturbingly strong. 

But it could not be disregarded that Feanor’s refuge felt powerful and ancient and divine because it seemed to be immersed in magic. The real kind. The ancient kind that still clung to the dragon skulls in the throne room. All of the world's higher mysteries seemed to exist solely with Feanor’s work. Sometimes, when someone mentioned Summerhall and what might have happened there, Rhaegar couldn’t help but think that Aegon should have just waited. Surely it would have been but a few years before the late king realized his youngest grandson was… Well.

Mother once let slip that Uncle Feanor’s mother consorted with witches. Rhaegar was too old to still believe in fanciful tales like that. But it would not do to underestimate a man with a Valyrian steel link in his unfinished Maester’s chain, all the same. 

When Rhaegar slipped away from his guards to push past the door to the forge, he tried to tamper his bursting glee. He could not fight the excitement, the pride, the satisfaction of having escaped to this forbidden and wondrous place. Rhaegar had to bit his lip to keep from smirking when Uncle looked up from his papers to give him a look.

It was an equal parts reprimanding and impressed expression. Rhaegar got more satisfaction out of that one gesture pride from Feanor than he ever did from anyone else. It was much harder to please Uncle Feanor, but also easier to interact with him. It made every reward so much sweeter.

Feanor didn’t bother with the reprimands or the inquiries or even the greetings. He just held up a hand stained with soot and beckoned. Rhaegar eagerly skipped past the work benches and containers and the door leading to the fires in order to stand next the Feanor’s desk. 

It was a very sad desk; stained with literal bottles of ink, with deep gashes that looked to have been hacked out, innumerable burns, and a leg that seemed to have been repaired three times. It had been repaired four times actually, Rhaegar knew this because he and Uncle hid one of the accidents. It had not been wise to place an eight year-old who had just experienced a growth spurt on top of such a rickety piece of furniture, especially next to knives and other dangerous things. But that was hindsight.

“What-” Rhaegar whispered, but Uncle shushed him. Feanor and Father were the only people Rhaegar allowed to do that.

Feanor held up his hand and directed Rhaegar’s gaze to the desk with his finger, making the boy look past the multiple papers that drew his attention. Instead, Feanor gestured to the innocuous candle at his side and a bowl of water. Rhaegar watched patiently as Feanor placed a piece of dragonglass atop the flame, where he steadily held it. They waited, and Uncle explained.

“The old texts of Valyria say that truth could be seen in the flame. The future. The past. The inner workings of one’s mind. They did this through channeling it through dragonglass, like the candles in the Citadel. Elsewhere, the Rhyonar used water for similar, and greater, designs. Northern stories say similar things about water in regards to their Gods and ancient peoples. I wonder then… if the two could be combined.”

Rhaegar only barely listened, too entranced with the flame and the glass and the flesh. Uncle’s hand was too close. It was obvious that the dragonglass had been cut into a specific shape, but it was too small to be held in the center of the flame like that. Feanor’s very fingers were blackening, and Rhaegar could smell it. But he could not open his mouth, because Uncle did not flinch and the blood sizzled as it stained the dragonglass. Those stray smudges of blood… within them… Rhaegar _saw_. 

It was not much, nothing that made sense. But he saw a grown man with a silver hair and a black crown. He saw his uncle surrounded by shadows that fought against flame, a silver and gold light atop his dark brow. Could one behold a melody? Could Rhaegar possibly see a song?

He did not know. But he felt it so.

Abruptly, startling Rhaegar from his reverie, Uncle plunged the dragonglass shard into the bowl of water that swirled unnaturally next to the candle. Steam rose. The water turned from somewhat green-ish to brown and murky, but nothing else happened. Feanor removed his hand, but kept the dragonglass submerged. He hummed, and wrote something down with his left, healthy hand.

That was when Rhaegar finally comprehended that Feanor’s other hand was still smoldering; his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger were blistering and bright red and blackened in places.

“Uncle!” Rhaegar cried, and he reached over to snatch at Feanor’s wrist. His uncle let him, not putting up any fuss as Rhaegar stared and fretted. It was only after a few moments of pointless examination and frantic fidgeting that Rhaegar remembered that he had no idea how to handle a burn. The realization must have showed on his face, because Feanor laughed as he reclaimed his hand. 

Feanor pushed back from his chair to pull a bucket from under his desk, and plunged his hand in with no ceremony. With his other hand, Feanor grabbed on the Rhaegar’s arm to keep the boy from bolting for a Maester. 

“Now, you must remember Rhaegar, that, while this seemed like a failed experiment, it was anything but!” he said pleasantly while Rhaegar moaned in disgust and fear as the hand reappeared. Feanor scrubbed at it with a not-wholly-clean rag, and Rhaegar felt just ever so slightly ill. 

“This was the most obvious way to approach combining the two powers, and the most likely to fail, but it had to be tried. In Volantis they submerge offerings in pools, so I’m trying that route first. But now I think that the purity of the water is the most important part.” Feanor pulled a salve from the other side of his desk and carelessly applied it to his fingers, pulling off bits of skin. Rhaegar wanted to go fetch his mother. 

“But proper investigation means all method have to be tried, even though I hypothesized it would fail. Remember that, Rhaegar. Simple solutions are usually the easiest to dismiss, that is why people like you and I must always pay special care to remember them. We must never out-think ourselves, Rhaegar!”

“We must never willfully burn ourselves!” Rhaegar cried. “The blood of the dragon does not stop literal fire!” 

But when he snatched his uncle’s poorly managed fingers and dab away the cream, Rhaegar stilled. They were not healed. Feanor’s fingers were burned; but no so badly as Rhaegar expected. They were red and raw and skin was rubbed away in places. Blood pebbled. But Feanor’s hand was not the mess of melted flesh and blood and soot that Rhaegar expected. 

When he looked up to met his uncle’s eyes, Feanor was smirking. 

“Indeed,” Uncle Feanor drawled, and suddenly Rhaegar was frightened. Not of his uncle, not for his uncle, but… he was frightened of where he was suddenly. The forge seemed darker and smaller, as if it was crowded with the shadows of a thousand people Rhaegar couldn’t see. The only light was Feanor’s. Uncle’s multi-colored candles and glowing gems and his shining eyes.

Rhaegar had always felt the magic in this place. Now he perhaps understood why Father feared it.

His uncle stood. “Come,” he said, congenial and normal and with a voice that held more power than the sun. “I have other projects to show you, if you promise not to tell your parents. And if you want to.”

Feanor held out his hand, still blistered and raw and likely hot to the touch. 

Rhaegar took it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The new chapter of From North to South will be out soon! I had to re-write it, but it is finished. I promise I haven't lost interest in this story, it's the opposite. I'm agonizing on getting it right! We'll see where we go from here, but I promise chapter 5 will at least definitely be published in December. I'm really sorry, please take this as consolation. (I also promised Mira: Celegorm, and that's almost done. It's much longer than this and the first one, so bear with me.)
> 
> Okay, now that that's out of the way! Rhaegar and Feanor are really fun to write together, as a pair of slightly mad, magic-obsessed cool, prodigy guys. So have a small glimpse into how I see their relationship when Rhaegar's still young; even though it's a little rougher and more bare than I would like. Tell me what you think though! I will enjoy seeing what more y'all can tease out about Feanor Blackfyre from this, cause every time I read the comments when I mention him I'm like, "Oh geez, they've got me figured out!"
> 
> Anyway, thank you ever so much for reading, and Happy Hanukkah! Please feel free to leave kudos and comments if you are so inclined.


	3. Mira Forrester: Celegorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mira is ashamed of her bastard cousin. She also loves him deeply. These emotions come into conflict often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long absence gift! Caranthir's chapter has been a bitch and half to edit, in addition to a bit of irl turmoil, but it's coming. In the meantime, have this iffyly-written interaction between Celegorm and Mira Forrester.

He hadn’t told her that he was coming here or spoken to her since arriving or even noticed her standing only a few yards away, which shouldn’t have hurt Mira as much as it did. From most anyone else, from Asher or Rodrik, she would think it an intentional cruelty, but Celegorm was simply too flighty for that. No, if he wanted to be unkind to Mira— and he had been on several occasions during their childhood, so she knew what it looked like— he would do so to her face. That reassurance didn’t remove the sting, though, because it meant he most likely just forgot about her presence in Highgarden. 

Which was natural of course! Mira had only been in Lady Margaery's service for a few months, and Celegorm hadn’t been home in a while when she left. He was a very busy knight, one who was always roaming and not easy to write to. Celegorm’s mind was probably very occupied with winning, and not on the locations of his every errant cousin.

And ever since Asher was sent across the sea, they were being scattered, indeed.

Still, Mira could not help the sorrow that tightened her jaw, and she could not tear her eyes from where she could see him across the pavillion. Celegorm’s pale hair stood like a beacon among the many crowns of dusty brown and tawny yellow, and he was a whole head taller than one of his two knightley companions. He waved his arms, laughed uproariously, and leaned cavalierly against the fence of the jousting ground. Generally, Celegorm drew attention, despite having been taught his entire life to keep his head down. Mira wasn’t the only one watching.

More than the other factors, though, what likely brought the plentiful glares and disdainful looks down upon his head was the crest. It was unapologetically northern, grey and white and depicting a hound. But it didn’t really tie him to any house, or at least not kindly. Celegorm’s sigil was a bastardization of House Stark’s noble crest; a snarling wolfhound instead of a running wolf with inverted colors. If anyone had any inkling of who Celegorm was— and many might, as he was the famous Maedhros Tully’s unlikely squire— they would see that he was wearing his bastard status proudly.

It did not make him popular.

In fact, Mira had yet to meet anyone who cared for that brazenness at all. Not even she could say that the sight of Celegorm’s pride and confidence made her happy, though Mira wished it did. It was just that… in the North, for small House Forrester in particular, one’s place in the order of things was very important. Mira had been taught since birth that she was to be a proper lady, to learn manners, needlepoint, estate management, and to respect and serve her liege lords, her lady, and her future husband to the fullest extent. That was her place, minor as it was, and that job was not to be despaired about, but rejoiced. All who did their work to the fullest extent were to be praised and respected, from the stable boys to the castellan to the pig farmers to her lord father. They did their part as every other piece in the process should.

But Celegorm had never been content with that. He had always fought and questioned and pushed beyond the boundaries of being Ironrath’s gamekeeper— the path set for him by Mira’s father when he was young. Celegorm had wanted more than to quietly fade into House Forrester’s framework. 

But bastards weren’t supposed to question their family’s generosity. He and Father had fought horribly about it before Lord Tully took the decision from everyone’s hands. And then they fought even more when Celegorm came home a knight and refused to pledge to their house. Or any house.

Celegorm’s ambition had earned him few friends, and Mira didn’t think she admired him for his dangerous path. She wasn’t sure she could afford to admire Celegorm breaking from his place in the tapestry, because following that example had done Asher no favours. But Mira did respect Celegorm for his actions, for actually winning his knighthood from noble Lord Arryn. And she loved him dearly. That love made it easy for Mira to quietly forget, with peace of mind and heart, all the things about Celegorm that upset her, and hate those knights that sent him scoffs.

She knew her cousin well enough; his temper, impertinence, discourtesy. But she also knew how he fought, and how his heart bled for children and animals and simple joys. These other knights didn’t have the right to sneer at him. In another life, one without a Mad King and a marriage pact, he might have been Celegorm Stark, noble son of Lord Brandon Stark, and then they would have tripped over themselves to speak to him. And he would have been friendly to them, even when they didn’t deserve his time. 

Some Tarbeck boy and his friends laughed towards Celegorm, and Mira perhaps let out her breath too harshly as she slid her gaze back to her cousin. 

Sera noticed. 

Mira had to watch the disaster in motion, because once Sera noticed so did the other girls. Suddenly there were four young ladies craning their necks to look at raucous Celegorm. Then Elinor giggled, and all of her fellow lady’s maids started sendings Mira suggestive looks while still stealing glances at Celegorm. Very much against her will, Mira winced.

“He is quite handsome,” Megga whispered, starting a round of laughter, and Mira blushed. She groaned quietly, and hissed, “Stop.”

It just sent the girls to laughing again.

Lady Margaery, from her honored seat in front of them on the dias, turned to look at her lady’s maids with a raised eyebrow, and Mira could have died. The apology was already on her lips when Elinor simply leaned down towards Lady Margaery’s ear and whispered, “We’ve just been admiring the knight who caught our sweet Northern girl’s attention.” Then she pointed Celegorm out in the growing crowd, and Lady Margaery began to consider him with a grin as well.

“Oh!” her lady said. “I can see why, you do have good taste, Mira.” 

More giggles rose, and Mira moaned aloud in her despair, absolutely certain her face was crimson. “No, no, my lady,” she implored, “It’s not like that.”

Megga laughed, and it was louder. “It’s not?” she questioned with a wide grin that didn’t seem entirely kind to Mira. She fought the urge to bury her head in her hands, and only Sera, now more sober, gently grasping her arm gave Mira the courage to reply.

“It’s not,” Mira pushed out forcefully, then she turned to address Lady Margaery. “Ser Celegorm is my kinsman, my lady, we were raised together. Though I’m sure he is fair, I do not consider him in that way.”

Lady Margaery’s face softened, and she waved at Megga, Elinor, and Alla, who instantly ceased their twittering. “I understand,” Lady Margaery said benevolently, and relief loosened Mira’s limbs. “Can I ask about your kinsman, Mira? He looks somewhat familiar, but I can’t tell why.”

Mira tried to shutter her face, or twist it to look pleasant and unbothered. She could tell from Sera’s sympathetic look and the worried curiosity on young Alla’s face that it didn’t work, though. She just wasn’t good a concealing herself like the southern girls, and they all saw her uncomfortable shame. 

“He’s…” she started slowly, and embarrassment burned her throat. They never spoke of Celegorm or Aunt Jocelyn outside of Ironrath, and Mira hated that she knew why. 

Aunt Jocelyn was funny and kind and she was very accomplished in ladylike skills. She taught Mira how to do needlepoint correctly when the Septa kept scolding her, and Aunt Jocelyn helped her fix muddied dresses before Mother saw. Mira’s only aunt told great stories about her youth, and Mira knew Father loved her and told her secrets. But they regarded Jocelyn like a dark mark. The only darker one was her son with his shameful name. 

And Mira hated that her first reaction was to sweep away this whole conversation and try to make them forget her only cousin existed. Celegorm was a knight of the realm trained by Lord Maedhros Tully, and Mira had nothing to be ashamed about! But she was ashamed; so very ashamed. 

But all those people were giving Celegorm awful looks and laughing at him. She could not imagine what it was like to be so openly ridiculed, not when she felt ready to die from light teasing. Some days it seemed as if all of Highgarden was laughing at her; Mira was ‘the northern girl’, grim and straight-laced, after all. And she flinched at her reputation. Celegorm never flinched. He was was brave, and faced the world proudly. He held his unconventional honour in front of himself like a shield. But despite the battering he could take, Celegorm didn’t need Mira— the girl he saved from ‘dragons’ and caught bunnies in wooden crates with— to be one of those cruel people.

No, Celegorm— with his winning smile and how he would indubitably throw all those southern knights off their horses— was something they could tease her about, and Mira wouldn’t mind. Or, at least she’d try harder not to be ashamed

Mira cleared her throat and straightened her back. 

“He’s my cousin, Lady Margaery, my aunt’s son. Perhaps you know him from his time as Lord Maedhros’s squire, but he’s also been a knight in his own right for several years. He won the tourney at Seaguard a year ago. He’s Ser Celegorm Snow.”

The other girls made noises, but Mira only paid attention to how Lady Margaery’s eyes widened and fell again. It was a very small give, but Mira blushed anyway. She didn’t lower her gaze though, or shift in discomfort. Mira was ashamed that there was a bastard in their family, she couldn’t deny that. But she wasn’t ashamed of Celegorm. 

To Lady Margaery’s credit, she smiled brightly and didn’t let any distaste show. “I remember now,” she said kindly and cheerfully, as if the moniker ‘Snow’ didn’t hang in the air between them. “I have seen your cousin before, when Lord Maedhros came to Highgarden. We’ve never met though.” She paused for a moment, as if something had just occurred to her, before continuing with a gleam of mischief in her gaze. Mira could not guess if this was bad or good. 

“Mira… would you say Ser Celegorm is a good knight? Honorable, skilled?”

Mira’s eyes widened, and she barely noticed the other lady’s maids trading looks. She bit her lip, then swiftly stopped because that was a bad habit. She wrung her hands instead, and Mira considered the question.

Celegorm… he wasn’t sworn to any lord, even though Father, Lord Stark, and Lord Tully had offered to take him. He had no courtesy or sense of place, and he fought like a wild animal rather than anyone dignified. Mira was pretty sure he could barely read, and she didn’t know if he had ever recited the Oath of the Seven. It was entirely possible the couldn’t name the lords of each great house. He drew attention, and started fights, and had no idea how to phrase his words to be anything but blunt, often to the point of unintentional cruelty and insolence.

Celegorm also taught Ethan how to shoot with more patience than Rodrik or Asher, and he made little carved toys for the village children just because he could. He liked proving his skills and he soaked up praise like cloth, but he never lorded his superior swordsmanship over his cousins. Celegorm took everything Lord Maedhros said to heart like it was scripture and followed it to the most minor of details, trying so hard to curb his temper and remember to honor all who deserved it. He broke Roose Bolton’s nose for insulting Aunt Jocelyn. When Wynafryd Manderly called Mira ungraceful he spent all night dancing with her, and— even though she didn’t gain any more elegance— she laughed through the entire feast. Celegorm was the only one with the courage to say Father was wrong to send Asher away. 

Mira gave an empathetic nod. “Yes, my lady, the very finest. He’s very loyal, and… he’s always kind to those who deserve it, too much so at times. And he is skilled! Celegorm’s the best rider in the North,” she huffed in one breath, thinking _just like Aunt Jocelyn and Brandon Stark_. “He’s a good knight, a credit to any house.” She held her head high, but kept her gaze averted. Mira feared she’d rambled in a very unladylike way.

Lady Margaery simply took Mira’s hand and stood though, shocking the girls around her. “If that’s the case,” Lady Margaery said, a twinkle in her eye, “then I would like to meet him very much. Anyone who inspires such love in you, sweet Mira, must be quite worthy.” Mira barely had time to blush, let alone stammer a reply, before she was pulled along. Sera and the other lady’s maids trailed after them. 

“Come along! Introduce me,” Lady Margaery exclaimed, leading the way. Mira had no choice but to make her way towards Celegorm, even though some heavy emotion was curling in her stomach. The world around her was moving too fast for her to identify it. Was this really happening? Lady Margaery wanted to meet Celegorm?

Oh no.

As was expected when one saw a troop of ladies marching along in their impractical southern dresses, Celegorm noticed them from a distance and gaped in confusion. Then that confusion turned to assessment, which became unadulterated joy. His companions turned as well, but Mira paid them no attention because in an instant her cousin leapt into action. He’d noticed Mira in her dour colors and with her Northern features immediately, and didn’t even bother to give the beautiful Margaery Tyrell more than a glance. Celegorm grinned.

He dashed across the muddy ground, effectively splashing the hems of Mira’s and Lady Margaery’s dresses as he came closer than was proper. But Celegorm threw his arms around Mira’s waist without a care for propriety, and hefted her up into the air. She gave a small shriek at the sudden motion, and it just might have been laughter.

“I didn’t think I was allowed to see you!” he hissed loudly in her ear. Mira did not reply immediately, just tightened her grip on his slippery armour and tried not to be too relieved. _You remembered._ A sudden, harsh wave of homesickness hit her, and Mira choked back the desire to cry. This wasn’t the place.

Celegorm set her back down suddenly, and Mira tried to huff and smile and straighten her dress.

“You should have just written,” she said, but it did not come out quite as scolding as she’d intended.

His large, gauntleted hands settled on her shoulders with a thud. Celegorm made a soft noise, and simply beamed. Mira understood that gesture better than any of the words she watched him stutter through and so carefully learn as a child. She settled her delicate hand atop the monstrous metal contraption that would help keep him safe in but a few hours, and mourned not being able to feel his flesh. 

A deep longing echoed in her chest like a struck bell again, and she felt cold. Mira wanted– the same desire that haunted her on forgotten Northern holidays and late at night and while she sat silent at dinner tables– to be back in Ironrath with her family. But her family would not be there. Not all of them. She, Celegorm, and Asher had left home behind. Celegorm would return, and she probably would; providing Mira didn’t find a husband. 

But Asher would not. 

And seeing Celegorm with his armour that was for those southern tourneys, with his friends from houses Mira didn’t recognize… she could return to Ironrath. But none of them would ever really go home again. Would they? Not the same. Not without taking something from the south back, and leaving some part of them there.

Celegorm Snow was the only cousin Mira had. But he’d been more of an estranged brother than anything else, when they had climbed trees and taken lessons and opened presents together. But that was just one of many brothers. 

Now… Mira could go home. But Celegorm would be the only brother who understood this southern part of her after that. 

They stayed silent, gripping one another and studying each other’s faces. It hadn’t been so long since their last meeting that either of them looked any different, but… the future was almost as large as the Seven Kingdoms. Memories were precious and fickle things. Best to engrain what they could into their memories now. Mira certainly didn't know when she would ever see Celegorm again

“So, are you just here to greet me?” Celegorm said at length, still not releasing Mira. He was trying so hard to sound light-hearted and humorous, though he couldn't wipe the relief off his face. “Or are you going to give me your favour or something?”

“Mira’s not,” came a voice from the right, interrupting their moment and forcing them to pull apart. “Or, she can if she so wishes. But I’d very much like you to carry my favour, Ser Celegorm.”

Mira gasped, turning to look at Lady Margaery's self-satisfied grin. Behind her, the other lady's maids were lined up, and Elinor openly gaped. Alla had her little hands on her mouth. Mira herself could not quite process what she had heard. _A bastard… carrying Lady Margaery's favour?_

She flicked her eyes back to Celegorm, and watched his mouth work and his eyes narrow. She could feel the mistake he was about about to make coming in her very bones, like a sick growth on her sense of propriety. She saw his eyes flicker past Lady Margaery’s fine silks, and he looked almost insulted for a second. He was going to say something nasty; Mira just knew it. 

Before he could speak in his damning ignorance, Mira grabbed Celegorm’s arm and tugged hard. 

“Celegorm! Please, greet Lady Margaery Tyrell,” Mira barked, and he snapped to attention. Without questioning her or hesitating, Celegorm bowed, mumbling out something that could be interpreted as a proper greeting. Mira would have to make do with that, especially as he stood up straight only to openly stare again, gaze still wary but reconsidering. His eyes roamed just a bit too much over Lady Margaery, and were just a bit too appreciative for Mira’s comfort. She discreetly tugged on a piece his long hair.

He yelped, but Lady Margaery ignored that sound.

“It is very lovely to meet you as well, good ser. Mira tells me you are a fine and chivalrous knight, which is why I have come to see if you would help me with a problem.”

Celegorm shrugged casually, and Mira briefly considered running and never returning. This was why she was often ashamed of him, why people wanted to hit her cousin so badly. Could he not try, even a little, to display his manners in proper company?

“Depends on the problem, Lady Tyrell.”

Lady Margaery just smiled brightly at his uncourteous reply. She- in her infinite good humour- seemed amused and enchanted with Celegorm. Mira could not abide by his attitude, though, and silently promised herself to tell Aunt Jocelyn about her son’s rudeness. She would not punish him, but maybe Aunt Jocelyn would make sad and disappointed faces, and then Celegorm would feel bad.

With graceful and purposeful movements, Lady Margaery pulled a beautiful length of green silk with gold embroidery from her small purse. She held up the favour for everyone to look at.

“You see, Ser Celegorm, I fear this small favour could possibly cause a quarrel among my family. This is a three day tourney, and on the first day I gifted my favour to my brother, Garlan. On the second day, my brother Lancel wore my favour. Now, if Lancel or Garlan were to wear my favour again, it would be like showing preference to one over the other! And I cannot have that, Ser Celegorm.”

Lady Margaery paused for a long time, and fluttered her eyelashes exaggeratedly. But it still took Celegorm far to long to realise he should say, “Oh! Yes, of course not.”

“Exactly,” Lady Margaery continued patiently, and Mira was so very thankful for her. “I thought perhaps to give the favour to one of my other kinsmen, but then, which? That would cause a quarrel or hurt feelings too. So I worried I would have to let the last day of the tourney pass passively, without a champion, in order to avoid bruising the egos of my sweet kinsmen. But then I realized, it would be perfectly fair for the kinsman of one of my ladies to hold my favour! Alla, Megga, and Elinor are my lovely cousins, so it could not be their brothers, and Sera has no family present. I feared that would be the case for our dear Mira as well. Until she informed us about you. And with how your cousin raves about your skills and honour… Well. So, Ser Celegorm, would you be so good as to do me this immense favour and be my champion on this day?”

Mira was trying very hard not to gape and faint. _Lady Margaery Tyrell_ , the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, the most eligible woman in the Seven Kingdoms, the cleverest and most desirable woman Mira had ever met, wanted Celegorm to carry her favour. Half-feral, wild wolf, Celegorm with his uncouth manners and stupid hair? Mira would give him her own favour any day without hesitation, sure, but she was not Lady Margaery. Only the most gallant of knight typically gained her favor, and Mira could not imagine any of her brothers being polite enough to no offend her sensibilities. Her whole Northern family would be embarrassments compared against the Tyrells.

But this was really happening, and Lady Margaery was waiting for an answer, and Celegorm was just staring.

He was waiting for a trick, Mira realized as she watched him shift and creak uncomfortably. She could see it in his wary stance, and half-curled lips. Celegorm had squared his shoulders and was looking down at Margaery Tyrell, nearly a full foot shorter than him, with great trepidation. Like she was a snake waiting to bit him.

He was frightened that this beautiful, high-born woman was trying to make a fool of him.

And why wouldn't he? Very few people had ever given Celegorm good reason to trust their kindness.

With great love and even greater sadness, Mira slowly reached out and tapped at Celegorm’s wrist. When he turned to her, Mira tried to smile kindly. She nodded gently, silently asking him to _trust me, trust me, trust Lady Margaery._

Celegorm had no reason to trust Lady Margaery, or any else. But Mira hoped he trusted her.

Celegorm nodded back, and Mira could have wept.

“If you think it’s a good idea,” he said, holding out his hand tentatively. “Then I’d be, uh, honoured to carry you favour, Lady Tyrell.”

Lady Margaery smiled as she handed over the ribbon, but she grinned brightly— a far realer expression— when Celegorm tied it into his hair. 

With movements more graceful than most would expect of him— but Mira knew, because no matter how many times had she and Talia practice, Celegorm always braided and styled their hair with more skill than any lady— he weaved the ribbon between two of his tight braids, and let the rest hang down the side of his head next his short ponytail. Later, once his helm was put on, it wouldn’t be seen. But the gesture was so very like him, that Mira couldn’t even be exasperated that he’d missed the point. Lady Margaery looked positively delighted. So all was well.

He was not a very good, traditional knight, Mira thought, but how could anyone even think of being ashamed of an endearing man like Ser Celegorm Snow?

“Do me proud, my good knight. And when you win, I do hope you will name me Queen of Love and Beauty in return,” Lady Margaery said with a wink.

Celegorm grinned in response. 

And when he rode by hours later, his victory sitting proudly upon his shoulders, he leaned uncouthly across the seats to reach the ladies. Then, with not even a passing glance at Lady Margaery Tyrell, Celegorm ungracefully dropped the wreath of roses on Mira’s brow.

His laughter echoed.

Mira reasoned- amid the yells and laughter and jeers, and behind the shield of her hands and those soft petals- that _this_ embarrassment was actually a good and proper reason to be ashamed of Celegorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm had Bid Dumbass Energy. Mira had Big Dick Energy and dislikes having to cope with him. But he's her dumbass, so what are you gonna do? I also love that Margaery knowing and finding Celegorm hilarious is canon in this fic now, because at some point Maglor is going to learn this and have a conniption. Like this:
> 
> "Turko you're not smart enough to deal with Margaery!"  
> "Fuck you, Maggie! I can talk to the pretty lady if I want to!"
> 
> All jokes aside, here's a small glimpse at how growing up a bastard in the North wasn't fun, despite the fact that Celegorm's family does love him very much. The Forresters (as any who played the telltale game knows) are really great, even if they did kinda end up looking like the bad guys in Celegorm's upbringing. But he loves them and they love him, and everyone is just trying to make the best of a difficult situation.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and any kudos and comments you might feel inclined to leave! Heads up, next chapter of North to South will hopefully be out in mid-april, and we MIGHT get Barristan Selmy: Feanor next on this fic, and perhaps very soon. It's written but needs some serious clean up.


	4. Barristan Selmy: Feanor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they arrived on Stepstones to combat Maelys the Monstrous, the boy was Prince Duncan's son. When they left he was someone else.

Lord Ormund’s body could not be wrested from his son’s arms. It was becoming quite the scene, Lord Steffon’s agonized cries mixing with the sounds of the dying and the pleas of people trying to get the new Lord Baratheon to let his father be taken home for burial. Better to be interned in Westeros, than to be made to ash on the wet sand though, Barristan thought. All across the beach there was blood and flame, and countless bodies. They would not get the same consideration as the Baratheons.

Maelys Blackfyre had laughed at them as he did this. 

Adjacent from the scene, was a small boy. A child-sized sword lie in the sand next to him, and the boy was filthy. His black hair was matted, his face smudged, and pants ripped at the shins. The child had pulled his knees up to his chest in order to seem as small as possible.

Prince Feanor Targaryen looked like the common squire of a minor lord. 

Except he was a prince, and the squire of Lord Ormund Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Lord of Storm’s End, husband of Princess Rhaelle. He should be on the boat Lord Steffon and the corpse were being dragged on to. Instead, he sat in the sand.

Barristan approached him.

He’d never met Prince Feanor formally, but he had seen the child before. It was a memory that stuck with Barristan, as the day one was knighted naturally did. Throughout the ceremony when King Aegon V had knighted Barristan, little five-year-old Prince Feanor had cried from his mother’s arms. It was an awful screeching sound that ruined the solemnity of the event, but Barristan couldn’t have been mad if he tried. The little thing had been distraught to see his father, former Crown Prince Duncan, unhorsed, and was only calmed after the Prince of Dragonflies jumped the barrier to the stands. Prince Duncan had taken his young son into his arms and soothed the child with pats and kisses, and Barristan’s chest had swelled. Truly, there had not been a more noble knight in the Seven Kingdoms that Barristan could have chosen to emulate and admire.

Now that lively, endearing child sat in the bloody sand looking dead.

“Your highness,” Barristan called from a respectable distance. Prince Feanor didn’t look up. “Your highness, Prince Feanor,” he said again, just a little bit louder. But the boy still didn’t stir. 

Barristan’s distress slowly grew, but he turned away from the prince at a tap on his shoulder. Theomar Smallwood stood behind him, looking haggard and exhausted. He gave Barristan a wane, bitter smile, and said, “Call him Fin.”

“What?” Why would Barristan call a prince of House Targaryen such a common name?

“That’s was every calls him back home. In the Riverlands, I mean. Fin, Lord Fin, Prince Fin. Something like that. Fin’s the name his mother gave him. ”

“Why?” 

Lord Theomar shrugged. “Lady Jenny did odd things like that. She always said the Targaryen names were too large and grand for children to carry. Don’t know why it caught on. We just call our prince ‘Fin’.”

Barristan’s nose wrinkled. That seemed like a dangerous and foolish thing to do. Whatever Jenny of Oldstones might have once wanted, she was tragically dead now. Would the child even want to hear his mother’s name for him?

But before Barristan could argue the point, Ser Theomar turned to the prince and loudly called, “Fin!”

Prince Feanor looked up.

Ser Theomar gave a pat to Barristan’s shoulder and threw him a smug grin before walking away.

Barristan grimaced. “Your highness,” he said, taking another step forward. The prince’s eyes narrowed. “Shouldn’t you be boarding the ship for the Stormlands with Lord Steffon?”

They were starting to ready the sails, and if the prince didn’t go quickly… Well, it would likely be all of their heads. The last thing the royal family needed was another dead prince, another vanquished relative. Wasn’t Summerhall enough? Wasn’t Lord Ormund?

But Prince Feanor didn’t move or twitch, he simply continued to stare at Barristan grimly. “No, I shouldn’t be. I shan’t be going back to Westeros,” the boy said at length, his voice sounding every inch like the cracking, squeaking thirteen-year-old he was. All of him looked young and awkward, from his gangly limbs to his slimming face. The prince’s pants ended above his ankles, as if he had rapidly grown and no one had yet had the time to refit him. 

It seemed odd, to Barristan, that a prince would be neglected like this. They were leaving him behind, why were they leaving Prince Duncan’s son behind?

“May I ask why not, your highness?”

The prince sniffed and twisted his head. He seemed to curl closer in on himself, and Barristan feared he wouldn’t actually answer. It wasn’t as if a knight such as Barristan could force the child to talk or march him to the ship against his will after all.

At length though, Prince Feanor said, “Uncle— Lord Baratheon is dead, not me. There’s still a war to fight. Steffon is to take me on when he returns with Aerys, but until then… King Jaeherys says there needs to be a Targaryen on Stepstones to fight Blackfyre. _Symbolically_.”

That was perhaps more honesty than Barristan wanted the responsibility of knowing. Because while it was impossible to separate Feanor Targaryen from the knowledge that he was Prince Duncan’s son, it was easy to forget that the boy was also a prince. It really didn’t surprise Barristan that the River Lords could call him Fin, like Feanor Targaryen was little more than a minor lord’s minor lord’s youngest son. The child was rarely at court, and his mother was one of the smallfolk, and he looked nothing like a Targaryen. He was terribly filthy. Prince Feanor simply looked like an orphaned child, and Barristan’s heart hurt for him.

He sat down next to the prince. The boy startled just a little bit, turning his disconcerting eyes to regard Barristan. They were bloodshot. “And who are you supposed to be reporting to, squire, before Lord Baratheon returns. Lord Hightower?”

“He’s Aerys’s knight,” Prince Feanor whispered, bitterness pouring from his mouth. “No. There’s no one. I’m to stay and ‘be brave’. And what about you? Who are you?”

“Ser Barristan Selmy of Harvest Hall, your highness. At your service.”

“My service,” the boy sneered, twisting the words and looking thoroughly disgusted. “And what service would that be, Ser Selmy? Are you to put me out of my misery before Blackfyre does it?”

“No!” Barristan would be a liar if said he hadn’t heard that implication in the boy-prince’s description of his uncle’s orders for him, but he wasn’t sure he believed it. Such an idea was abhorrent! This was a child, a thoroughly traumatised one. “None would ever dare think—”

But Barristan didn’t even need to see the boy’s incredulous glare to know that wasn’t true. Many would kill this boy if the king ordered it. Some for honour, some for lands or gold, some for no reward at all. King Jaehaerys, with his penchant towards superstition and decidedly not ironclad claim to the throne, might.

“I would not, your highness,” Barristan whispered instead, trying to gather up all the earnestness he could. There didn’t seem to be nearly as much of it as there once was, stained and twisted more in two days at war than the lifetime that had preceded it. Barristan had buried the corpse of a boy today; he didn’t know the child’s name. Would anyone have recognized- or wanted to recognize- Prince Feanor’s body had he perished yesterday?

He was alive yet, though, and Barristan comforted himself with the thought. No one was looking after him, so his breathing might not be for long. But in this moment, Prince Feanor’s face seemed to soften minutely at Barristan’s words. The boy took a steadying breath.

“Why?” Prince Feanor muttered, sounding genuinely confused, and perhaps near tears. “Why not? My uncle has cast me off. The noble bonds in my blood that would forbid injury are weak and frayed. As my mother was one of the smallfolk, I am barely better. Not only is my life inconsequential, but I am mad. Haven’t you heard? A mad little arsonist who doesn’t know how to accept his family’s generosity. Might as well put me down like a dog. Killing me is no more a crime than squishing a dragonfly at this point.”

Barristan clenched his jaw. Those words sounded practiced; quoted. What does a boy of thirteen have to hear, and how often, to see so little value in his own existence? Barristan’s hand spasmed violently, and he fought the urge to go challenge someone for the sake of this child’s honor. But who? There was no one. No one with a face, or willing to be challenged. All of Barristan’s notions of propriety and chivalry were useless against the king and his ilk. Prince Duncan had practiced honor, but if his brother didn’t there was nothing anyone could do. 

Barristan let out a hot, aggravated sigh. “Even if you were a baseborn bastard like Ser Duncan the Tall,” he said, his voice gone deep and gravely with indignation, “your life would have value.”

Feanor didn’t look up, but his curled up body tensed.

Barristan continued, spitting his words with conviction.

“Any knight or lord who’d kill a boy of thirteen years deserves to be stripped of his position. That’s something any true knight knows. Something I learned from watching your father.”

At that, Prince Feanor looked up, eyes wary but wide; shocked. Had anyone dared mention his father since Summerhall? Barristan could not have said. 

The princes lips moved but he never actually asked the question.

Barristan answered anyway. “Prince Duncan named me Barristan the Bold when I was of an age with you. I didn’t know him well, but I admired him greatly.”

Feanor considered these words for a time, visibly chewing on them. His eyes were… bright. Brighter than any Barristan had seen, and grey; though not quite like a Northerner. His eyes shifted alongside Prince Feanor’s face as his thoughts raced through was seemed to be a complex series of emotion. At length, Prince Feanor nodded. The tension bled from his body some, and he tilted his head back to finally look at Barristan properly.

“Father was the best of men.” This was said as a simple, unbreakable fact. Yet, the prince’s tone dared challenge. It was good then, that Barristan wholeheartedly agreed.

“He was.”

For a moment, Barristan feared the child would start crying, because his face went red and his eyes scrunched. But instead, Prince Feanor picked up his sword, and Barristan reared back. The blade slammed down in the sand on the prince’s other side, point first, kicking up a spray. Feanor slashed at the sand again, and again, violently. 

“I hate them! This isn’t fair!” he cried. Feanor suddenly chucked the sword away, towards the water; towards the Baratheon’s ship that had left port and was sailing away. Unsurprisingly, the projectile didn’t make it that far. But Barristan didn’t think the ship had ever been his goal. Kings Landing was, maybe. King Jaehaerys’s heart?

After making his underwhelming throw, the child’s whole body went limp. He slouched onto sand, bent over his knees. Feanor stopped moving. 

Barristan’s heart stopped beating in his chest for a second, and he jumped up to lean over and pull the boy up, half frightened that the prince had just died all of a sudden from anguish, as the stories said women occasionally did. But when Feanor was hauled to his knees by the back of his tunic, he was breathing, harshly too. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his whole body trembled in Barristan’s grasp.

“I think I’m going to die here,” Feanor whispered.

Barristan let him go. The prince fell onto his back, eyes shut and despair clinging to his every limb. Barristan desperately wanted to say something, anything. But Feanor’s simple fear had struck him like an crossbow bolt, and terror spread through him like poison. Barristan was pretty sure he was going to die here, too. One battle… they’d been on Stepstones for two days and fought one battle and lost a third of their fighting force. Yes, more reinforcements would be coming with Prince Aerys… but what did more targets to slice down mean to a man like Maelys the Monstrous?

Barristan slumped down as well, feeling like a puppet with cut strings. They sat in silence for a time, counting their own breaths. _This is_ , Barristan thought, detachedly, _perhaps the worst day of my life_. Then a rush of relief came upon him so fast and so violently, it resulted in a reaction that was almost like anger. Because if this was the worst of it… then he had nothing to lose tomorrow. If this was the worst day of Barristan’s life, suddenly all his previously fanciful and impossible goals in life seemed so much easier. If this was the very worst, actually making it home wouldn’t be half as hard.

“Do you know how one survives a war, you highness?” Barristan said at length, but very suddenly. He didn’t know why he said that, but his heart was racing in his chest and he couldn’t escape the overwhelming desire _to live._

_I’m not meant to die here, I’m greater than this. Prince Duncan’s son is greater than this Seven forsaken rock._

Feanor actually opened his eyes to look, despite the action looking like it took an immeasurable amount of energy. Barristan’s words must have struck some cord.

“No,” the boy muttered. “Do you?”

Barristan sighed, a frightened and confused, but hot sound, like a distressed horse almost. In that moment, he felt no older than thirteen, a frightened boy desperately wishing for his mother and father himself. “No,” Barristan said, practically shaking. “I don’t. But I can make a few guesses. Can you?”

“Guess?” Prince Feanor murmured, turning to regard Barristan again. “Like a hypothesis for an experiment?”

Barristan wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he had a general idea so he said, “Something like that.”

The prince snorted. “Not much of an experiment when we’re the test subjects. I don’t know. I guess you kill more people that the others kill of us. Don’t get stabbed. Pray. Not that the gods are listening.”

Barristan agreed, as he could still hear men screaming in the distance. But out of reflex he said, “The Seven haven’t forsaken us yet, your highness.” Being an elder brother, Barristan was used to parroting back advice he didn’t believe in to the young and in need of guidance.

“Who said anything about the Seven?”

But none of his younger siblings had ever said anything like _that_ , though.

There had always been rumours that Lady Jenny was a witch. Barristan desperately hoped Feanor was talking about the old gods, that maybe his mother had some Blackwood bastard in her. But even that thought wasn’t terribly comforting. That was the type of thing the Targaryen’s certainly wouldn't appreciate. 

“Right,” Barristan said at length, some of the fire fading and suddenly feeling out of his depth. What was he doing, trying to comfort this child? Prince Duncan had been kind to him as a boy, but certainly Barristan hadn’t been so persistently odd and stubborn. But Barristan hadn’t been nearly as in need of help either. He grasped for his revelation, that had seemed worldchanging a second ago. It felt lukewarm now. But even water-downed mead was better than river water. 

“I think there’s a little bit of all that to surviving this,” Barristan said. “But also… anger; and love. Wanting to get out of here to see the ones who’d miss you. Being spiteful enough to survive and be happy, and achieve your goals. Nothing can be as hard as this. Don’t you think that means that now it’s going to be so much easier to do all those other things that seemed frightening before? Does that make sense?” 

Prince Feanor’s eyes were wide. He looked, for just a moment, like an actual child. “Aye,” he whispered, “I think… I think that’s what I did after I went home.” Barristan didn’t know what that meant, but Feanor didn’t elaborate, so he didn’t ask. 

“Well, I think we should try to channel that a little bit. During the battle, I just kept thinking… I want to see my brother again. And my nephew. I can’t die here, because I need to do something else. Something more. Dying here would be worthless, it would be a waste. It would bring Blackfyre too much satisfaction.”

“It would take a thorn out of my uncle’s side.” 

Barristan’s eyes went very wide, and his breathing halted briefly. For a second there, he’d been stoking himself into a fire again, but the prince’s gleeful revelation doused that. This was edging closer to treason than Barristan was comfortable with. But were family spats treason? He didn’t know, but it made him wary.

But the prince had sat up, and the fire that had been in Barristan’s chest seemed to have transfered over to Feanor. New life had been breathed in eyes. The boy was small and weak and frightened and likely going to die, but for this moment he was alive. And he wanted to live.

Barristan couldn’t regret edging on treason.

“They’re wrong,” Feanor whispered, tone bone-chilling and unmovable and pleading, “I’m not mad. I’m not treasonous.”

That was a relief to know.

Feanor turned wildly and quickly, and he looked at Barristan with burning, silver eyes. Barristan breath caught in his throat; he had seen grown men with less conviction to them. The king had lesser eyes than this boy. He suddenly understood why Jaehaerys was so frightened of his baseborn nephew.

Feanor Targaryen would never need to be crowned. He just was a king.

Every word he spoke sounded like truth to Barristan’s ears.

“I’m going to be an honorable knight, like my father. I’m going to be fair and clever, like my mother. I’m going to be free. And I’m going to serve the realm, and my uncle and my cousin. And each day they can fear that I’ll take their throne from them. They can let it eat at them, as I survive and live and do everything right. Let them fear me! I’ll be happy. I’ll be happy. Because Uncle and Aerys will hate it. And I will spite them.”

Now this wasn’t treason for a Targaryen, but it probably was for a Selmy, so he did not nod along. But Barristan gave Prince Feanor, son of Prince Duncan and Jenny of Oldstones, a small smile of approval.

A sick, angry part of him was proud.

“Stick with me, boy,” Barristan said all at once. “We’ll watch out for each other. Steffon Baratheon’s little more than a squire himself, and… and his priorities are elsewhere. I’ll protect you, your highness. One last favour to your lord father.”

The child raised a sardonic eyebrow. But a lazy, too clever smile graced his face. The last of the wariness and tension had drained from Feanor’s body, and Barristan smiled wider. This must be who Feanor Targaryen, or ‘Fin’ rather, really was, under all the grief and betrayal… Barristan thought he liked him.

“Are we to be Dunk and Egg?” Feanor mocked. “I think not.”

Barristan snorted; this child was too precocious for his own good. That smart mouth was going to get him into a great deal of trouble. There was only so far dragon blood could get him before someone cut Feanor open for pushing just a little too far. No, the sass would have to be the first thing to go. Barristand stood, and wiped sand off his trousers. “Of course not, your highness. I imagine we’ll do something different.”

Barristan held out his hand. 

Prince Feanor actually took it.  
__________________________________________________________________________

Years and years after the War of Ninepenny Kings, Barristan Selmy no longer remembered that first day on the Stepstones as the worst of his life. There were a dozen others he could now name. High on that list— Ashara Dayne’s death, Prince Rhaegar’s death, the moment they all knew Aerys was mad— though, was that last day of the War of Ninepenny Kings. Because that was the first time Barristan truly failed Feanor.

For seven months, Barristan Selmy had dragged Prince Feanor Targaryen around, desperately trying to keep him alive. For seven months, he succeeded. He pulled the boy out of the way of horses and listened to his sad little stories about his parents. He clothed and trained him, and tried to treat to prince like a common squire. Barristan set him to work and even struck Feanor once. But Feanor had nearly raised his sword against Prince Aerys, so Barristan never repented for it, even though his new squire was cross.

The Stepstones ran red with blood, and many a day it felt like they were fighting monsters. Many a day could have been the worst day of their lives, though they told themselves it wasn’t. Through all of it, Barristan and Feanor lived. 

Until they caught sight of the monstrous pretender himself. And they both felt fear. 

The world slowed as they watched Maelys Blackfyre spot Aerys clothed in his prince’s livery and knight’s pride. The battle crashed into motion again when Maelys charged. 

Barristan could not see everything that had passed over Feanor’s face in that moment, caught up in the blood and steel and movement and fear. But he could make a few guesses: grief, opportunity, cruelty, love, spite.

Barristan did see when Feanor made a choice. 

With a great amount of foolish courage and the fire of his dragon’s soul guiding him, Feanor engaged. 

As the history books told it, Prince Feanor crossed swords with Maelys Blackfyre, but only once. During the scuffle, Prince Feanor managed to stab Maelys in the leg, and he made the vile bastard bleed as revenge for all the Targaryen’s slaughtered by his errant house. Then Prince Feanor, brave but young, nearly died for this affront, and took a sword to the shoulder and a boot to the neck.

It was at that point that Barristan Selmy rose from the turmoil to challenge the great beast, and slayed him in a righteous fury.

The truth of the matter was that Feanor got a lucky strike against Maelys Blackfyre on his way to the ground. The monster hadn’t even noticed the boy was attacking him until he threw Feanor off his feet on accident. Barristan didn’t rise like the Warrior himself, either. Rather he had awkwardly followed at Feanor’s heels, trying to keep up with the nimble boy.

Maelys the Monstrous was killed by a sword to the back, rather than defeated in an epic duel.

In both stories, one fact was the same. Maelys Blackfyre died for the crime of harming Prince Duncan’s son.

The battle broke soon after, but if it was minutes or hours, Barristan didn’t know. He fell to his knees and dragged Feanor up by his shirt, thanking the Old and the New Gods that the prince was breathing. Barristan held him, and for a long time they didn’t move.

“Would my father be proud?”

Barristan could have wept. “Yes.”

Feanor did weep.

As the chaos abated, a crowd gathered around them and Maelys’s grotesque corpse. Barristan spotted Prince Aerys. He wondered if the boy knew what his cousin had done for him. Probably not. And if he did, the crown prince probably didn’t care.

A rush of spite had swept through Barristan in that moment, as he was a young and unruly fool himself at the nearly, nearly as much as of a child the boy in his arms. Anger thundered in his chest, and he wanted to give Feanor a reason to keep living, a way to live. By the Gods, Barristan wanted him to be happy. He would never be able to do that in his uncle’s care.

“Kneel,” Barristan had hissed to Feanor. “Kneel, and I will knight you.” 

_Gods be good_ , he thought, _he’s only fourteen._ But a petty thing like age hadn’t mattered on Stepstones yet. I wouldn't now.

Feanor— still bleeding— had knelt, while Barristan rose. He picked up sword again, and laid it upon the boy’s right shoulder.

“Prince Feanor, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

“I do,” Feanor said, eyes meeting Barristan’s but mind obviously a million miles away. He should have known then that the genius, stupid boy was going to make a mess of Barristan’s gesture.

“Then rise, and I dub the Pri-“

“Ser!” Feanor had cried, rising faster than Barristan could see. His eyes were shining in that dangerous kingly way again. He’d had an idea. Barristan hated when that happened, and dread settled upon him. But Feanor was too quick, and there was nothing Barristan could do to stop him from saying something that might get him killed.

“I rise before you all, and let the realm know!” Feanor yelled, manic grin barely contained. “I rise before you, Ser Feanor Blackfyre!” 

For one second the roar was deafening, then Feanor held up his fist and all paused. He seemed to command the entire island.

“Let us not allow another Blackfyre Pretender to rise up! I will not let them think they have any right to the throne! Any right to Westeros and the lands of House Targaryen! So once more, a branch son of House Targaryen will take up the name Blackfyre, but this time in service of the one true king!”

Feanor’s whole body turned dramatically to stare at Prince Aerys. He held out his hand.

“The dragon has three heads,” he said earnestly to his cousin, instead of yelling it to the whole world. For the first time his voice had faltered, and Feanor sounded almost breathy to Barristan. The conviction never wavered, but that odd note of vulnerability had crept into his voice again. He was pleading. “Blackfyre will be a red dragon once again. If House Targaryen will have him.”

The silence held for two beats, where Barristan’s heart was in his throat. Why was Feanor always edging on treason?

Why was Barristan ready to swear himself to House Blackfyre and fight the whole realm for this boy?

Barristan was just about to march forward and throw Feanor over his shoulder so they could flee, when Prince Aerys strode towards his cousin. He looked ready to kill, and Barristan held onto his sword tightly. But the crown prince simply grabbed onto Feanor’s wrist like a viper, and held it high.

“All hail the head of House Blackfyre, my cousin Feanor!” A confused cheer rose up. “All hail Barristan Selmy, he who slayed the Pretender!” A mightier cry rippled through the armies of Westeros.

Barristan could only look at Feanor in wonder and fear, as the world descended into chaotic joy around them. The boy was bleeding and breathing, and Barristan would follow him to the end of the world. But Barristan was suddenly sure that he’d failed in his mission to protect Prince Duncan’s son.

Standing in Maelys Blackfyre’s blood, Prince Fin Targaryen died.

In Maelys Blackfyre’s blood, Ser Feanor Blackfyre was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I really got Barristan' voice, but I quite like him and his 'last real knight in Westeros' schtick. At least that's how I see him. In other news, tiny, angry Feanor continues to be tiny and angry. Now he just has the opportunity to stab people and burn stuff. Barristan is so tired, y'all. Who made him this prince's babysitter?
> 
> Further up the timeline, though, at the time of From North to South, how much does Barristan remember Feanor, I wonder? Fun times ahead, friends.
> 
> Thank you for reading. If you feel so inclined, I love comments, but I also immensely appreciate kudos and just you reading. So thank you and I'll try to update soon!


	5. Tywin: Feanor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once, Feanor was an obstacle because he trailed at Aerys's heels while they were trying to play. Now, he was deep sore in Tywin's side because Feanor would have been the better king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is also known as, "The Matter of Maelyn Goodbrook".

The boy dragged into his office by a pair of guards looked angry enough to rip Tywin’s arms from his body. Feanor was red-faced and wild-eyed, and his teeth were bared. Tywin watched externally impassive, but quietly impressed at the air Feanor drew into his lungs. Preparation, no doubt, for the scathing reprimand already on his tongue. 

Best to halt this before Blackfyre could work up any steam.

“We need to discuss the matter of Maelyn Goodbrook.”

Satisfaction curled in Tywin’s stomach as Feanor shut his mouth inelegantly. 

Though he ripped his arms from Ser Gaunt’s grip, Feanor still let himself be deposited in the chair in front of Tywin’s desk without any more fight. His face had gone some approximation of blank, though Tywin had to hold a raised eyebrow at the sight. Feanor still wasn’t good at hiding his feelings, just like when they were all children and Aerys would pick on his young cousin. He’d go crying to his low born mother from just a few clever words or pinches.

Feanor didn’t look much older than that little boy, years and many deaths and a war later. He’d not gained much height, even at sixteen, and his wide eyes were still pale and watery. But there was no one for Feanor to cry to, no supposed witches or Targaryens. The sole lord of a house of one: Ser Feanor Blackfyre. And yet, the lonely title fit him better than ‘Prince Duncan’s son’ ever did. Being House Targaryen’s black cousin served him well. And from his position, he served others well. 

Tywin did not approve of poor, little Feanor’s attempts the champion of all who Aerys would trample.

Tywin did not approve of how Feanor somehow had Aerys’s ear. 

“I imagine any issue with Lady Maelyn would be better taken to the queen,” Feanor muttered, not quite able to meet Tywin’s eye. He gripped the seat too tightly. That was good, he hadn’t told her of their current predicament; Tywin would hate to incur Rhaella’s ill will. Though, given their issue at hand, she might not side with her cousin, like she typically did.

“You’re right,” Tywin declared, picking up a goblet and the pitcher of wine at his side table. Feanor was going to need it. “Or, at least you would be right, had I not been trying to do you a favour.”

Feanor snorted, not even deigning that with a reply. Still, he took the goblet when it was offered. Tywin poured another for himself. “I’m serious. Don’t try to lie to me, Feanor. We both know you have a vested interest in Lady Maelyn, she’s more your handmaiden than the queens.”

The redness on Feanor’s cheeks was gratifying, as was his scandalized look.

“Lady Maelyn-”

“Is your friends, yes, I know.” Everyone knew. A very dear friend indeed. He’d raised her father to prominence in court, had the girl made into one of Rhaella’s lady’s maids, let the girl sew little audacious gems onto his shirts. And all because she played in the mud with him and Lady Jenny as a child. Quite frankly, Tywin wasn’t sure why Feanor hadn’t just gone ahead and married her already. Maybe he’d been waiting for the girl to become a woman grown on her sixteenth nameday in a few months time. 

If only Aerys had been so circumspect.

“And that friendship is why I think you might have a vested interest in her current… foolishly begotten condition.” 

His face pinched, not just angry but furious. It was always a sight to behold, Feanor’s ire; he was truly a Targaryen in that regard, all fire and claws. Tywin would never forget how he’d screamed and screamed himself hoarse at Jaehaerys after the Summerhall Memorial. All of eleven, the child had looked more intimidating then than half the men Tywin had killed on Stepstones. He’d seem to glow in his anger, and call up the memory of Summerhall’s blaze; for a moment, Tywin had almost believed in witches.

He was not quite that angry right now, but he easily could be. As Feanor shot to his feet, Tywin grabbed his goblet from the table. Feanor’s own drink went tumbling to the ground when he slammed his hands down on Tywin’s desk.

“Maelyn has done nothing wrong!” he screamed. Tywin fought a long sigh. “It is Aerys who was a monster-”

“Quiet, Feanor! Lest you make things worse for your errant girl,” Tywin snapped, nodding his head deliberately towards the slightly ajar door. The guards lingered outside. 

Feanor, not wholly a fool, silenced himself, and sat again. Still afraid of him, Tywin thought to himself, with just a little relief. Of course, Aerys was also afraid of Feanor in return. And the day Feanor realized that would be the day of all their ruin. The day that Feanor believed he had nothing more to gain from playing nice was the day Prince Duncan’s line took back the throne. He said choosing the name ‘Blackfyre’ was a sign of good will, but Tywin could not believe it. He could only be thankful that Feanor was careless, and left the few things he loved so thoroughly unguarded.

Aerys held Rhaella and Rhaegar tightly in his grasp. Now, Tywin had Maelyn.

“How the girl came by her condition is now irrelevant.” 

Feanor growled, obviously thinking differently. Tywin kept speaking before he could intervene.

“Now, all that matters it what to do with her, and more importantly, the child,” Tywin declared, folding his hands in front of his face and watching Feanor closely. He was shaking, just a little bit. Perhaps from fury, or anxiety. Maybe even fear. Tywin wondered, how had Maelyn Goodbrook looked when she went to her friend? Did she know she was with child then? Did she confess to her childhood companion how the king took her, and how many times? Scared, dismissive, proud? Tywin had seen all those looks, heard all those stories from the many women that Aerys had bedded over the years.

“We have a routine,” Tywin said calmly, “for how to handle this situation.”

Tywin Lannister was not Lucas Lothson, or any of Aegon the Unworthy’s equally worthless Hands. There would be no bastards, great or otherwise, to challenge Rhaegar. They had enough to worry about in Feanor.

Feanor, child though he was, still seemed to understand what Tywin was saying. He drew a deep breath, and his eyes flicked to the doorway, as if he expected the King’s Justice to come in with a sword pointed at Maelyn Goodbrook’s not yet swollen belly. Feanor went very still, as he turned his full attention back to Tywin. That was good. He would hate for Feanor to underestimate the severity of this situation.

“I have a plan,” Feanor said, voice clear and strong even as he clenched the armrest tight enough for it to creak. “I will take care of Maelyn, and her child. So you don’t need to worry about it anymore.”

“You’ll marry her? And what if the child looks like a Targaryen?”

“ _I_ am a-”

“You are not,” Tywin snapped. “And do you think that half the Red Keep doesn’t know of her defilement? You’d keep her here, for Aerys to take again, would you?” _Or would you leave King’s Landing?_

It was a tempting notion. Feanor, Maelyn Goodbrook, and her bastard retreat to the Riverlands that were their home, and none of the court ever hears from them again. Feanor suffers the indignantly of raising a bastard as his own trueborn child, as well. But that would give Feanor too much control of Lady Maelyn, and Tywin didn’t know if he’d ever get such an opportunity again.

“We-”

“I’m going to tell you what you are going to do, and you are going to know that I am doing you a favour.”

Oh, Feanor did not like being interrupted so many times. But he wasn’t an idiot; in fact, Feanor was one of the brightest people Tywin had ever met. A shame really. Tywin wouldn’t have minded working with a competent prince, had he just been able to show a little restraint and fall into line. But Feanor refused to properly suffer Aerys, and one day he would fail to keep his mouth shut.

Today was not that day. Feanor remained quiet, as his eyes glared at Tywin with the ferocity of the sun.

“You want Maelyn Goodbrook and her child to live long, comfortable lives. Am I right Feanor?”

It was almost amusing how he refused to nod along to Tywin’s goading. They could both still feel the ‘yes’ in the air, though.

“I want to make sure that no… complications arise for the king, in regards to rumors or persons. Lady Maelyn and her bastard are a large complication, one neither I nor likely Rhaella and Rhaegar will suffer lightly. Normally, I’d just get rid of them both permanently.”

Feanor snorted like a horse at that. It was rather undignified.

“But I’m giving you one opportunity, Feanor. You get rid of her. However you like. Just make Maelyn Goodbrook and her child disappear, away from Aerys, from court, from King’s Landing, the Crownlands, and away from the Iron Throne and anyone connected to it. If that child grows up believing they’re Targaryen, that they have any right to Aerys, you’ve failed. And then I will handle the matter. Am I understood?”

For a long moment, Tywin was forced to hold Feanor’s gaze. Neither of them were men used to looking away first, to bending or submitting. For nearly two decades now, Tywin had watch Feanor Blackfyre— once Targaryen— stumble around court with his misplaced pride and unyielding eyes. He’d won some battles; made a nuisance of himself to Jaeherys, kept a staunch friend in Queen Rhaella and Ser Barristan, gained Aerys’s ear through his show of supplication on the Stepstones. But Feanor had lost much more. He’d thrown away his name, and his claim, and his ambition.

And for what?

For his head first and foremost. But also for his one real weakness. 

Feanor Blackfyre— Feanor Targaryen— could have been king. And he traded it for a place in a decimated family that didn’t want him.

Still just a boy, Tywin thought as Feanor’s eyes flicked away. 

He didn’t confirm Tywin’s question, or agree with him. Feanor only stood and marched away. 

But within a month, Maelyn Goodbrook was married to one Thorren Forrester, a northerner from a suitably worthless house. A girl was born several months later, one the council's spies reported having dark hair and Targaryen eyes. Tywin decided to leave it be. Feanor had tried so hard, and she wasn't terribly dangerous, so far up north and without a real claim. She would be largely harmless; this was also good news for Forreseter.

Tywin still couldn’t help but wonder how anything Feanor could have offered the man had made him take the girl and the child that could have been a boy. Gold, a treaty? The answer was only apparent when Feanor marched north with Lord and Lady Forrester with a host of prisoners and volunteers behind him. That seemed like a poor price for taking on a bastard, but the Northmen were so dedicated to their superstitions and their wall. That would be a good place for a witch’s son. 

Tywin almost— but never quite— felt bad. He hoped, a little absently, that Feanor hadn’t loved the girl too badly. But if he did swear himself to the Night’s Watch in his heartbreak… well, that was one less problem for Tywin and Aerys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first one of these I've written where I actually want to give this disclaimer but... Don't take Tywin's words at face value! He's an unreliable narrator! He's brilliant and evil, but he doesn't know, or understand, everything going on around Feanor. Also, Tywin utterly over-shadowing and talking over Feanor is really something ain't it? I was unprepared for Tywin's pov, he is a doozy.
> 
> Okay, now that that's out of the way! This one is plot relevant (also way more indulgent than usual)! There's going to be another one that's really plot relevant about Cersei that I'm going to post once we get near the end of From North to Uttermost South, but for now this one relates to some stuff our wolf boys are going to learn one or two chapters from now. Feanor had a lot of fun up north, did things, met people. Settled Maelyn Forrester at Ironrath and held her hand when her daughter Jocelyn was born (in case you forgot my oc family tree that acts as the justification for Celegorm being both Stark and Targaryen). Did you think I made them up without considering the implications of how that could happen within this au? Muahaha, it's all connected (except for the stuff I forget).
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! Any comments or kudos are much appreciated, AND I can say that the first draft of next chapter of North to South is competed, but I'll admit that means nothing in regards to when it actually get published. Bear with me!


	6. Daenerys & Viserys: Feanor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys only knows her family through stories.

The door creaked open, and Daenerys hid more firmly under her sheets. It was Viserys, she knew it was him from the way he bumbled and cursed. He was drunk, terribly so. Dany hated when Viserys was drunk. His moods grew so… volatile. More so than usual. He touched her too much.

Though she tried to stay still, Dany flinched just a little when she felt his weight collapse on the bed. He was next to her, just lying there. 

“Daenerys?” Viserys whispered, so soft and quiet. Dany peaked out at him, just a little bit. He looked lethargic, and sad. Tonight… he wouldn't be bad tonight then. Dany wiggled her way out of the covers to look at him fully.

Viserys tried to reach for her when she flopped on her pillow, but his hand fell before it could reach her head. Instead, he groaned and stretched out, obviously trying to get comfortable. “Daenerys,” he mumbled again, as Dany watched him patiently.

“Do you remember Mother?” he asked, even though he knew she didn’t. Viserys didn’t wait for her to answer. 

“You would have liked her,” Viserys slurred, and it made Dany’s chest ached and her heart throb. Viserys did not like to talk about Mother much; he said she was pretty and gentle and all things good, and sometimes he said Daenerys should be more like her. But Viserys could not bear to tell about stories Mother, and if Dany pressed he would hit her. She feared Viserys blamed her for Mother dying. He was probably right.

“Do you remember Uncle?” he mumbled, so quiet Dany almost couldn’t hear. “No… no, you don’t. Uncle died, he had to die. He went to the fire. Mother and Rhaegar talked about Uncle Feanor, so much. What was he like, Dany?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered back. She’d never heard of ‘Uncle’ before. Her mother and father had no other siblings, she’d seen that on the family tree.

“Mother loved Uncle,” Viserys muttered, words even quieter and more slurred. He was squinting his eyes and studying her face, as if he could find his answers in her bone structure. “He was… his hair was dark. And he was tall. Uncle would carry me… all day I think. He’d toss me up in the air, and let me sit in his lap in the library. He and Mother and Father were all so… grasping. But Father was too strong and Mother too frail. Uncle was good to sit with. Rhaegar would sit with us too; the only time he’d ever sit with us… me and Rhaegar, Uncle and Mother in that red parlor. There was glass and jewelry and books scattered everywhere, and large tapestries. The most beautiful tapestries were in Uncle’s room. I don’t know where they went, after he died.” 

Viserys grew quiet, and his eyes fluttered shut around his mournful expression. Daenerys tried to imagine her uncle now, giving him Viserys’s face. He was sad and dark haired and he had gentle, firm hands. Dany’s uncle would pick her up and carry her away from Volantis, to a red parlor behind a red door. Outside was decorated with lemon trees and the inside was glass. Daenerys had no idea how a room could be filled with glass, but imagined the little bits of green rock she collected on the beach hung from the ceiling, swirling and making light. 

“So beautiful,” Viserys whispered suddenly, frightening Dany into jerking away. But he remained just as still as he had, softly saying, “Uncle Feanor’s tapestries were so beautiful, Dany. I’ll hang them in your room when we go home.” 

_That’ll be nice_ , she thought, as she settled back down. She could see in her minds eyes a tapestry of red and black and silver and purple, and there was Mother, holding her. At her side was Father with his hand on Viserys’s shoulder, and Rhaegar and his family to their left. On Mother’s right, their dark haired uncle stood, tall and welcoming. They all had slight, content smiles on their faces. 

And they were home.

But even as she tried to sleep, Daenerys knew that Uncle Feanor was just another piece of herself that she would never know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this made me sad.
> 
> I feel rather bad for Viserys, I do, even though he's just... the worst. I think having Rhaella help raise him would have done him a lot of good. And Feanor. I bet if Rhaella and Feanor raised all of those kids without the Targaryen nonsense they would have turned out a bit better. Or just less sad. Poor Dany.
> 
> But on a jollier note, it has become my tradition to post one of these when I have the first draft of the next chapter done! Cheers! So hopefully you'll see that in a reasonable amount of time (Maglor does not have a reasonable grasp on time, all his chapters are too long). In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this, and I appreciate any comments or kudos you might feel inclined to leave! Thank you!


End file.
